Boulôt II: Glutenous Maximus

Around 3 pm, it's not unusual for someone to cross the office and head for the door, calling over their shoulder, "Anyone want anything?"

The first time I just thought they were talking about a cigarette break so I didn't even look up. But everyone else reached for their wallets and placed an order:

"Tarte aux fraises! But only if they have the GOOD whipped cream..." *elaborate hand motions showing proper measurements for desired tarte & whipped cream quota*

"Flan for me, but only if you're going to the place in the alley across the street, not the one behind us. That place is awful." *wrinkled nose of disdain*

"Oohhhhh I don't know, get me whatever you're getting! Actually no. Tarte aux pommes."

"One of those raisin bun things." (boss is on a diet)

All eyes fall on me. And wait.



"Ummm thanks! But... I'm allergic. To like.. everything at the boulangerie. So don't worry about me!"


It's fine. I knew I'd be the outcast American who can't eat bread. It's a wonder people don't shield their children from me on the street. Gluten is right up there with the beloved pillars of the republic: liberté, égalité and fraternité (cue La Marseillaise!).

To continue this glutenous sidenote: Wheat is my cell phone's default background picture. Wheat is in the glucose syrup. To describe a long and painful duration of time, the French expression is "long as a day without bread." Come to think of it, lots of people living here could make a strong argument that wheat based foods are more French than those other three things I mentioned... what were they again?

But surprisingly, other than moments like these in the office, I've been almost a little disappointed by how quickly things have fallen into routine. When I want to play along, I go next door to the health food store and buy my vacuum packed gluten free croissants (by the way, one of the gluten free brands there is called, and I'm not kidding with this one, REVOLTA).

However, I will admit that one thing has not become routine at work: answering the phone. When my friend the receptionist isn't there, I enter a world of hell. It rings, I have to take a moment to swallow my stomach, find a pen/post it, and go to my quiet place. In my head I mean--the office is usually either quiet as a tomb (all the better for listening to me bumble on the phone) or ear-splittingly loud because of sirens, horns, car crashes outside (it's true-they can't drive), protesters, angry people inside the office...

I've mastered the greeting and everything. I know how to be polite and what to say. It's just those quick-talking mumblers on the other end who fit their entire message into one word. If I'm still unsure of how to write the name and company after requesting clearer pronunciations, my pride leads me to opt for a phonetic spelling. But that just prolongs the embarrassment. Because then I'm stuck saying "Hey, boss, Joelle Zasquhahrt called you when you were at your lunch meeting. You know, Joelle? From... Ooufek? About that thing on Thursday!"

It's always a relief to get a call from someone from the office, like any of our freelancers or film-related people. One guy always likes to try out his English when he hears it's me on the phone. A little sample:
“Ahhr you gugees on Weensdeey?”
“Um… I’m here every Wednesday…?”
“Baht ahhr you gohrgees???”
“Yes I am, thank you, thank you. Was it Max you wanted to speak with?”
"Bic top model!! You ahr top model!"

Speaking of Max, pastries, and borderline sexual harassment in the workplace... After returning from the pastry run that day, Max, a loud half-French guy with a permanent slur, stood up in the middle of the office, shoving his flan down his throat and gyrating his hips. Nobody batted an eye.